


Bloodless Doll

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Background R/C, Erik is a Stalker, Fictober, M/M, Raoul is Broody, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 09:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12407832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: When you began observing Raoul de Chagny in earnest, the oddities added up surprisingly quickly. A hypnotic voice. Unnaturally pale skin. Utter refusal to go to the opera house except at night. And a certain reserve that indicated he was hiding a secret.Erik wanted to know what that secret was.





	Bloodless Doll

Erik’s initial impression of the Vicomte de Chagny was that he was something of a baby. For an aristocrat of his age—and he was said to be twenty-three or thereabouts despite looking somewhat younger—he acted very oddly. The easiest way to put it was that he had no independence. He very rarely showed up at the opera house unless it was with his brother, Comte Philippe de Chagny, who never let him out of his sight for more than a few minutes. Classic example of an over sheltered boy getting his first taste of society, and his first taste still being little more than a sip. Not the sort of person you needed to keep an eye on.

On closer inspection, however, the Vicomte (Raoul) wasn’t exactly immature. Philippe never let him leave his sight for more than a few minutes, but he did know how to speak for himself. He spoke to the managers and the other patrons quite gracefully without any assistance, even showing a certain matter of taste in his opinions, which did not always mirror his brothers. And he showed a certain flair when speaking to women, or rather, to one woman in particular—Christine Daae. Speaking to her, he was quite charming.

(Were it not for that fact Erik would not have paid all that much attention to him to begin with.)

He was eager, of course, as a boy might be. Eager to remind her of a childhood spent together not too long in the past, to rekindle bonds of friendship. Erik might have looked harshly on him for that, fearing he might try to usurp Erik’s place in her heart, but while he was charming and friendly and honestly delighted with her, he also showed an odd level of reserve which Erik might not have expected.

For example, on the night of their first meeting, he asked Christine if she might join him and Philippe for dinner, and assured her it would be in a terribly public place, and with the other company that would be there no one would assume they were lovers.

Christine smiled hesitantly. “I was not afraid of scandal, Raoul. I know you would never do anything…untoward. Only I cannot go out tonight. The Angel of Music is very strict.”

But Raoul was already backing away as she spoke. He did not even question her as to what she meant by, “The Angel of Music.” Instead he said, “I’m sorry. You are right. It is not right for me to accompany you anywhere—it is not right for me to be here alone in your room, for that matter.”  In fact, Philippe was currently standing outside the door rather than in the room with him, even this much courtesy being a rare occurrence. “I should go.”

“No, but Raoul. Will I see you again?” she asked timidly.

“I will come to see your shows, if you would allow me. All of them. Your voice is even more beautiful than I remembered.” And with that bold statement, he smiled a smile both shy and intimate. Erik, watching from the mirror, clenched his fist. “I have been to several of them in the past few weeks. They give me…” He paused. Then he shrugged. “I have not been able to appreciate beauty for some time. You must know that I am a dead man now—but the passion in your songs awoke me, and I remembered you and I felt alive.” And again, the smile.

Christine, who could not have expected such a poetic tribute to her art, blushed fiercely. But in a low voice she asked, “Has something happened to you, then?”

Raoul hesitated. Then his smile widened into something much more cheerful and fake. “I am sorry for my gloominess. Of course nothing has happened. But I am glad to see you, Christine.”

“Then you must come to all my shows. Only I am afraid I cannot see you in private. The…”

“That is for the best, then,” Raoul said. His abruptness startled Erik (would he give up on a lost love so easily, when it was clear what he felt?) and clearly startled Christine as well. But he continued, “I can come to all the shows at night. I won’t be able to make the matinees.”

“Oh…well, I will be glad to see you at them.”

Their conversation headed in other directions then, speaking of what had occurred to them of late. Though Christine had been willing only moments earlier to tell Raoul about Erik, now something held her back, and instead she told him about the death of her father, and how she mourned him.

Raoul said, “I am sure he is in heaven, and thus can be counted fortunate in his death.” It would have struck Erik as a singularly insensitive remark, except he said it with full sincerity.

Christine said, “I pray for him every day, as I hope he prays for me.”And with this she crossed herself.

Raoul took a step back.

Christine raised an eyebrow.

“It is good that you pray for him,” he said hastily. “I will pray for him too. Now that I know.” But he muttered something under his breath.

Christine smiled hesitantly. “It’s good to see someone else who knew him. Perhaps you might come with me to visit his grave sometime.”

“I am sorry that he is dead,” Raoul said. He promised nothing.

When he left with his brother that evening, he left Christine a gift of a bouquet of roses. There were white roses and pink roses and yellow roses in the bundle, all of them fresh and fragrant, but not a single red one in the lot. It caused Erik to frown, and he could tell it took Christine aback. It would be all very well if the young man was not interested in pursuing Christine, but by his manner of speaking and by the way he looked at her, he obviously was. So what was stopping him? Erik had not done anything to warn him off yet. Was he simply intimidated by her beauty? Or perhaps the scandal of courting an opera girl was too much for him. Or did his brother, his keeper, disapprove?

It rankled Erik not to know. And so, while it might have been better to leave well enough alone, he determined to find out.

* * *

 

When you began observing Raoul de Chagny in earnest, the oddities added up surprisingly quickly.

First of all, he had a beautiful voice. It was smooth and sweet, not an operatic voice (it didn’t have the ranger) but a voice made of honey. A persuasive voice. The type of voice that undoubtedly could have talked Christine over to his side, which made it odder that he didn’t even try. But also a voice very dissimilar to that of Philippe de Chagny, whose voice, while not unpleasant, was rough. And the roughness could not be attributed to the occasional cigar because he hardly ever smoked. No, it was a de Chagny trait through and through, and yet Raoul did not share it.

Second, he had been serious when he told Christine he would not be able to attend any matinees. He never came to the opera house in the daytime. Common enough—it was a jollier place at night, after all, simultaneously more elegant and more crude, lewder and more poetic. Many aristocrats only came at night, and often only came on a particular night: every other Friday, or one Saturday a month. But Raoul came to nearly every night show, tugging an increasingly exasperated Philippe along with him, and spent every moment he could steal by Christine’s side. It seemed ludicrous that he somehow only liked to hear her sing or see her face when the moon was high. And there was nothing particularly refined or lewd about his nature that would have made him prefer the evening shows.

So, then, he should have been busy during the days. Erik intended to find out what he did during the daytime in any case, as it was necessary to know a bit more about a man than his taste in opera, telling as it was. But he watched Raoul for two whole weeks to no avail. Raoul went to the opera house every chance he got, in the evenings, but in the days he went absolutely nowhere. His carriage never left the house except carrying Philippe or one of his sisters or his mother on some solitary errand. In fact, Erik could never even catch a glimpse of him through the de Chagny manor windows—although to be fair, most of the windows were kept carefully locked and the curtains closed. Respectable or suspicious, it was hard to say.

(This was the first real clue. Erik filed it away carefully, and later it became one of his largest pieces of evidence.)

Third. Raoul was also very, very pale. Once again, not a de Chagny family trait. Philippe was somewhat red and tanned, as were his sisters and his mother. But Raoul was paler even than Erik, who only ventured out into the sunlight once in a very great while, and even then wore a mask or a very low hat and a very high collar.

This was something Erik asked Christine about during one of their lessons. “Did Raoul used to be so pale when you were childhood friends?”

Perhaps it came as a bit of a non sequitur. They had been in the middle of scales, and Erik had said nothing to lead into it. But Raoul had been constantly on his mind for days. For him, it felt like the continuing of a conversation already in progress.

Christine clearly felt differently. “What Raoul?”

“Vicomte de Chagny. Your dedicated admirer who brings you flowers once a week and always gushes about every one of your performances,” Erik said drily. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed his existence? But you should know by now that I know everyone you do, as I am deeply concerned with your affairs.”

“Please, Angel. He means no harm.”

By now Christine knew very well that Erik was not an actual angel. Soon after Raoul’s arrival he had decided there were to be no more secrets between them, and taken her down to see his home. She had even (unfortunately) seen his face, and that she called him Angel even now was only a sign of the respect between them, respect he was owed but still felt gratified to possess.

“Well,” Erik said, “I’m sure I don’t mean any harm either, but he’s an odd lad, isn’t he? And really being so pale cannot be healthy. You say he used to play with you on the beachside…”

“I’ve never said any such thing.”

“…Was he always that pale? Or is this some sign of a new and dangerous illness?”

“He was not that pale then,” Christine conceded. “He was very tanned all the time, and very dirty too—we used to get in trouble for that. But I’m sure he’s not ill. Just the other day he lifted me very easily.”

“Is that so?” Erik had not seen any such thing happen.

“Well, I tripped on the rug and he very easily caught me and picked me up and put me down in my chair. It didn’t cause him any trouble at all.” Christine smiled at the memory, and Erik scowled.

“In the peak of health, then? But how can he be? I’ve never even seen him eat.”

“He eats at very regular hours,” Christine said with an air of dignity. “Never between mealtimes. And he never drinks. So you see he really does take care of his health.”

Erik laughed. But seeing that she was offended, he decided to be kinder when speaking about her friend (or lover—he still was not convinced of Raoul’s intentions). “A fine specimen of manhood, to be sure, very fit and very beautiful. Yet there is something odd about him. He never goes anywhere but the opera house, and his actions toward you have been contradictory.” He touched her arm. “Perhaps you should not associate with him. He might very well be mad, or dangerous.”

Christine pulled away. “I can choose my friends for myself, thank you. And you should not worry yourself about Raoul. Leave him alone.”

It was the boldest thing she had ever said to him. So Erik left the matter alone—or rather, he did not bring it up with Christine again. His own surveillance did not end there. He was no longer interested about Raoul for Christine’s sake. There was something about him that was fascinating in itself—his peculiar habits but his personality as well, sincere and yet with a sense of restraint that was almost akin to shame. And yet, as far as Erik could tell, there was nothing for him to be ashamed of.

Some secret, then. A secret Erik would have to eventually rat out.

He was beginning to doubt, though, that the secret was anything all that dangerous or scandalous. Raoul had been a gentleman thus far with Christine, and he was courteous with everyone around him. He seemed like a genuinely kind, good man. Erik, never having spoken to him, nonetheless felt a little fond. Time and again, he watched Raoul watch the opera from a secret compartment in his box, and time and again, he loved to see how enraptured Raoul would become, how his eyes would glisten, how he would lean forward in his seat or stand up to clap at the end of a song before anyone else had thought to do so.

Of course he had other tics that were less aristocratic. For example, the way he would nervously look at Philippe whenever a new person joined their box or whenever a particularly passionate love song played. He seemed afraid of new people although he spoke with them well enough and could even handle crowds well with Philippe by his side, and mortified by all the more amorous songs of lust and pleasure. During those songs he would often take the scarf around his neck and pull it over his face up to his nose. And yet he would never never breathe hard or flush, not even slightly. He remained porcelain pale, enacting embarrassment like a puppet, able to go through the motions but never reacting quite right. It was otherworldly. It was, to be frank, adorable.

Yes, Erik was becoming very fond of Raoul. But he was not entirely pleased with certain others in the opera house. Particularly the new managers, who were growing too confident that it was their opera house rather than Erik’s, and that they could do as they pleased, disregarding his instructions. They had refused to pay his salary ever since they had taken over, and they had cast Carlotta as the countess in _Il Muto_ despite his explicit instructions that she play a silent role.

Something would have to be done.

On the opening night of _Il Muto_ , Erik made his preparations carefully. Then, ever self indulgent, he stole away to the de Chagny box where Philippe and Raoul sat, tonight, alone.

“I can’t imagine why you’d come to watch her in a silent role,” Philippe said. Erik’s surveillance thus far had proven him to be somewhat annoyed at Raoul’s devotion to Christine—annoyed and amused at once. But this concern at least was reasonable. Christine in a silent role was ridiculous. It was an insult.

“She is a friend,” Raoul said simply. “I would watch her in anything.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t. I’m not sure this promises to be a good show, either—you know I’m not much for this sort of comedy, and Carlotta is much better at a tragic role.”

Raoul cast an angry glance at Philippe. “If you did not want to come, we could have stayed home. You know I would not have forced you.”

Philippe winced. “Don’t be so sensitive. Of course I would never deprive you of the opera.” He ruffled Raoul’s hair. “It makes me happy to see you take an interest in…something, at least.”

Erik would gladly have stayed longer and watched the bickering play out. Raoul when angered was a lovely sight, remaining pale even in indignation but twisting his face into such indignant expressions. Unfortunately, Erik had ventriloquism to wrangle and a gossip-mongering stage hand to slaughter. And so he had to go.

But he caught up with Raoul much earlier than expected.

He found him on the rooftop after following Christine there. She had fled the stage, distraught, and Erik had come up in hopes of soothing her, assuring her that Buquet, dead or alive, meant nothing to anyone, and really she only ought to be excited about the part she would now be given. He had been prepared to give her quite a talking to. When he arrived on the rooftop, though, he found he was not the first to have the idea. Raoul had taken a surprising amount of initiative.

“Calm down,” he said. He was holding Christine in his arms, firm against her trembling body. She tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t let go, and here his rumored strength became apparent. “Calm down. You’re all right.”

“He’s dead. Dead, do you hear me? Good Lord, I wish that I had died before today. But if I had known that it would go this far…”

And she collapsed into a flood of tears.

Unexpectedly, Raoul let go of her and backed away several steps. Christine collapsed into the snow with a little cry, but he barely looked at her. He pulled his scarf up to cover his face nearly all the way, clutching his hand over his nose and mouth.

“Raoul?” She knelt upright, unable to get to her feet. Her dress was crinkled in the snow. She had not even brought her cloak up with her, and her arms were mostly bare, and her hands were turning red. “Raoul?”

“Stay back.”

One might have expected his voice to become rough in its duress. And yet, though he was trembling now almost as violently as Christine, his voice was smooth and honeyed as ever, perhaps moreso. Erik felt drawn to it. He almost stumbled out of his hiding place behind the statue of Apollo, but forced himself not to move.

“Raoul,” Christine said after a moment. “I’m frightened.”

Raoul was silent. Then, “You have cause to be.”

Not exactly comforting.

Slowly, Raoul lowered his hand and pulled his scarf off his nose. Once again, not a hint of a blush. He spoke quietly now. “There are monsters in this world, who walk among us as easily as men. This Phantom…I suppose he must be one of them.”

“I did not tell you,” Christine said. “But I told you about my Angel and I think he is the one behind all this. He must be.”

“You might be right.”

“Raoul, I’m frightened,” Christine repeated. “Please.” She stepped closer to him, but he again stepped away. “He wants me. I know that’s what he wants. He wants to make me a part of his darkness, and I’ll never escape.”

Raoul had now backed so far away that he was almost at the door where they had entered. He stared off into the distance. “I had not expected to find violence here.”

For a moment, Erik felt guilty. There was something tragic in his voice, in his gaze. Had Erik disrupted his place of peace? But the feeling passed—after all, the opera house was Erik’s domain, his place of refuge, before it was anyone else’s.

“Tell me what to do.”

Christine had never sounded so lost when speaking to Erik, or indeed within his hearing. She did not approach Raoul anymore, but stood with her arms at her sides, shivering with cold and staring at him.

“You should leave,” Raoul said. “You should go back to Sweden, perhaps. Paris is not a good place for someone like you. And you should stay safe.”

“What I want is freedom,” Christine said. “And safety, Raoul. But I don’t want to be alone.”

A man with a heart of stone would have told her he would protect her.

Raoul said, “This place is not safe anymore. You should leave.”

And now, finally, he approached her. But he did not take her into his arms. Instead, he took off his coat and draped it around her. And then he stepped back again. “For now, go inside and sing. Whoever this madman is, one should not make him mad.”

Reluctantly, Christine turned away. But she said, “Will you not help me?”

“I will do what I can.”

Christine slumped. Then, setting her shoulders back, she headed inside, still wearing his long coat.

Raoul now wore only his waistcoat and shirt, but he still had his scarf tied tightly around his neck. It only occurred to Erik now that he had never seen Raoul without the scarf. And as he realized that with Christine gone Raoul had stopped shivering, and in fact did not seem to mind the cold at all, the pieces of the puzzle came together in his mind.

Pale skin, hypnotic voice, aversion to sunlight, and something probably wrong with his neck. Erik had heard tales of a creature with such traits—Lamia, vetala, shtriga, dhampir, moroi. Vampire, in the colloquial tongue. He had never believed such creatures existed, but then, he had seen more incredible things on his travels than a man with a taste for blood. And the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Yes, the Vicomte was probably a vampire—most likely a new one, too, since he still looked roughly human and around the right age. That meant he must have been assaulted recently. Of course the poor dear wouldn’t have been able to defend himself very well.

Yes. A very reasonable explanation overall—well, not reasonable but still it somehow felt right. Erik would have to test his theory, of course, but he felt certain he was correct.

* * *

 

Testing the theory was simple enough. There would have been a vast number of ways to do with it, but Erik was resolved to be delicate. Raoul, after all, was very interesting, becoming more intriguing by the day. It would not do to hurt him. And at the same time, Erik did not want to meet him yet either, not head-on. Confronting a vampire would be much too dangerous.

So his test was of the simplest sort.

He snuck into the de Chagny manor, for a start. Until now he had held back from doing such a thing, allowing Raoul a vestige of privacy. But now it had become imperative to see what Raoul did during the day, just for a start. So he went out in broad daylight (although it made him cringe, his skin at least did not burn as he suspected Raoul’s would) and snuck quietly in through one of the de Chagny manor’s windows.

He had to be very careful. The sisters and mother were out—he had waited to see the carriage leave—but Philippe was still in, and there was no telling what Raoul would be doing. Erik had brought a noose and a gun with him both, as well as a small but wicked knife, just in case he ended up in any sort of confrontation. He didn’t want to use them, though. So he was very quiet and stuck to the corners, and checking one room after another, eventually found Raoul’s bedroom. He would not necessarily have known it was Raoul’s—all the bedrooms looked much the same, and it was almost as neat as one of the unused guest rooms—but Raoul himself was stretched out under the covers of the bed, deeply asleep. So asleep that when Erik crept in and shut the door behind him, he did not stir.

Quietly Erik went to his bedside. No, he did not even move at what noise there was. He lay with his face turned perfectly up toward the ceiling, his hands crossed on his stomach, deliberately posed. Again, Erik could only think that he looked like a doll. And a dressed up doll at that—even in bed and in his night clothes, his scarf was still wrapped firmly around his neck. At least it looked soft.

Hesitantly, Erik stretched a hand over Raoul’s mouth to feel if there was breath. No, none, not even a puff of warm air. But the mouth was closed after all. A more certain measurement now. He picked up Raoul’s wrist, ever so gently so as to not bother him, though in fact he did not react at all. He put two fingers over the artery and felt it for a long minute. No pulse—but that was an uncertain measurement. Emboldened by his success thus far, he pulled the blanket down a little ways and put his hand on Raoul’s chest, covered only by a single layer of cloth. And he could feel no heartbeat.

“Monster,” he whispered reverently. “Oh, my.”

He pulled the covers back up. Curious, and ready to test his luck despite himself, he touched Raoul’s lips. No reaction. He slowly pulled up the skin of the upper lip to reveal the front teeth, all four of them. Part of him expected to find large fangs. No such luck, but the canines were a bit sharper than might be considered normal. Erik added it to his catalogue of proof.

He stepped away from the bed now and hesitated.

The destructive, nihilist part of him, which always wanted to test its limits and see how much havoc he could wreak, wondered what would happen if he pulled open the windows and let in the sunlight. Would it wake Raoul up from his deathly slumber? Or perhaps would his pale, cold body silently crumble into ash, leaving only sooty remains on the bed sheets? Ah, it would be delightful watching Philippe de Chagny try to explain his brother’s appearance to high society and to the authorities, to watch such a calm, controlled and even charming man stutter through excuses, overcome by grief that everyone would take as the guilt of a murderer. They would never be able to convict him without the proof a body would provide, but society wouldn’t need evidence. Within a month’s time he’d be completely ostracized, the house of de Chagny tarnished forever.

These were only passing thoughts, of course. Erik liked Raoul and had no desire to hurt him. Besides, this was the most exciting thing to happen to him for some time now, and the game wasn’t over yet. Killing a man in his sleep was no fun—killing a man as fascinating as Raoul was no fun no matter how you did it—and to attack someone as vulnerable as Raoul was right now, as unaware, would be a level of cruelty and injustice that made even Erik cringe. No, he would do nothing to Raoul for now. He would not even take that scarf off and see what lay beneath, much as he wondered.

Instead, he left on Raoul’s bedside table a note that he had written ahead of time, confident that he would find decent enough evidence to move forward with his plan. Sealed with a skull shaped stamp in red wax—that ought to make it plain enough who it was from, even though he had not, for once, signed it O.G.

_“Dear Monsieur de Chagny,_

_“I know what you are. If you don’t want me to tell everyone you know starting with Christine Daae, come to the cemetery tomorrow at eleven o’clock pm. Come alone, and go to M. Daae’s grave. It is time you said farewell to an old friend, and if you do as you are told you may have the luck to make a new one._

_“Sincerely,_

_“Erik, Sometime Known as the Angel of Music.”_

He doubted the title would impress Raoul, but the reminder that Erik knew Christine might do something to motivate him. At any rate, he would find that out soon enough.

* * *

 

Despite claiming he hoped to make friends with Raoul, Erik had no expectations that things would go smoothly. Accordingly, he brought to the cemetery the following supplies:

One long wooden stake. Last resort—all legends speaking of these in relation to vampires said they were fatal. Killing Raoul was not what Erik had in mind.

A pair of silver handcuffs.

Two bottles of holy water, obtained through Madame Giry, who was devoutly Catholic and could ask her parish priest for anything.

A quantity of ground garlic.

A silver cross on a chain, which Erik wore around his neck just in case everything else went to hell.

And, last but not least, a normal gun. This would probably be useless against a vampire but there was a small chance Raoul would bring Philippe with him or even the authorities, in which case Erik would have to bail but might be called upon to defend himself in a more mundane fashion.

As it turned out, though, Raoul arrived alone. Precisely on time, too. He was following Erik’s directions perfectly. Erik, who had hidden behind the huge monument in the Daae family plot, smiled as he approached. Good boy.

“Erik?” Raoul called out. His voice filled the stillness of the graveyard like a perfume diffusing through the air. Erik waited. “Angel?”

And finally, when Erik still did not respond, “Phantom?”

Erik said, “Erik will do.”

He spoke loudly and clearly, and threw his voice a little to the side. Nevertheless, his own operatic voice came out weak when compared to Raoul’s. That was a vampire’s charm in action—objectively, Raoul would never be able to project or sing as well as Erik, but it was much too hard to be objective at this range.

“Come out,” Raoul said.

Erik did so, stepping away from the monument and into vision. Raoul was only a couple yards away. He stood hunched, one fist clenched at his side, the other hand playing with the end of his scarf.

“You do not seem comfortable here, monsieur,” Erik said. “Is it the number of crosses?”

“As if you don’t already know,” Raoul snapped. “Very well, I came onto holy ground because you asked me to. What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Erik said. “To see you.” He stepped closer, watching the way Raoul’s body tensed. “You are very beautiful, you know.”

He took one more step, and then Raoul lunged.

He was faster than Erik would have expected, but Erik was more experienced and entirely ready. He side stepped the lunge and tripped Raoul, letting his momentum send him to the ground. And as Raoul tried to get to his feet, he brought out one of the bottles of holy water and splashed a good portion of it on Raoul’s back.

He didn’t aim for Raoul’s face, unsure of how potent it might be. And of course the water had no effect on the cloth of Raoul’s coat and scarf except to soak it. But it did soak through to some extent and Raoul winced, sinking back to the ground. Erik gave him another small splash before kneeling next to him and snapping the silver handcuffs around his wrists.

“These work on your kind, don’t they? If silver bullets have an effect, surely silver in general must be somewhat unpleasant.”

Raoul was shaking. Not from the cold, which would have no effect on a vampire, so probably still from the holy water. Erik turned him over so that he was now lying on his back on the snowy ground.

“Do you have no answer for me?”

“What do you want, Phantom?” Raoul snapped. He bared his teeth, and Erik could see that he did have fangs extended now. “You didn’t call me out here just to talk.”

“I didn’t,” Erik acknowledged. He’d really wanted a chance to use the handcuffs and a chance to touch Raoul rather than just looking at him, and he’d been certain enough of Raoul attacking him that he hadn’t worried too much about it. Still, that didn’t mean his plans were well formed, exactly, and now that he had Raoul where he wanted him, he wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

One step at a time then. He sat down on Raoul’s midsection and tugged lightly at the scarf. “For one thing, I wanted to see your neck.”

Raoul’s eyes widened and he tried to roll away from Erik. Erik sighed and gripped both sides of the scarf, pulling it tighter rather than looser until Raoul gagged.

He laughed. “You look so uncomfortable. But you don’t have to breathe, do you? Why does it bother you?”

Raoul mouthed something that Erik didn’t catch. No sound came out of his mouth, probably because the scarf was too tight around his larynx. Erik casually ran a hand through his hair. “Would you rather it tight, or off?”

No response but a glare. But when Erik pulled the scarf tighter again, Raoul bucked and tried to headbutt him. Erik let it go loose. “Tight, or off?”

Raoul gasped, although of course he shouldn’t have needed breath. “Get off me.”

“Close enough.” Erik lifted Raoul’s head by the hair, keeping his wrist far enough from Raoul’s mouth to avoid the fangs, unwound the scarf and pulled it away.

He rather expected to find two neat holes on the jugular, indentations like one might find with a snakebite. This was not what he found.

The side of Raoul’s neck had a scar on it that was roughly circular, the circle being about the size of a fist. It wasn’t neat at all. Here and there were tooth marks, some shaped like canine incisions, others like tear marks. There was no single mouth shape. It looked more like someone had chewed on Raoul’s neck for a while, never quite tearing off the flesh but not bothering to limit himself to a single bite. Ripping in some places, sinking in at others. Holding Raoul’s chin in place, Erik touched the scar with his other hand and pictured how the blood must have run.

“He really let himself go, didn’t he?”

Raoul was still shaking, more than before. Erik pictured how it must have gone. A dark alley, maybe, or a lonely night in the countryside if Raoul had still been in Sweden. A man, maybe a woman, probably a stranger, impossibly strong, impossible to resist. Had they planned the encounter beforehand, stalking Raoul for weeks, or had they merely spotted a pretty young man and gone in for the kill on instinct?

Erik doubted they had planned as deliberately or cared as much about Raoul as Erik. And yet, by their vampire nature they had been able to mark him, change him in ways Erik would have found impossible.

The scar called to him. He tightened his grip on Raoul’s chin, holding his jaw closed tightly, and leaned down to press his own lips to Raoul’s neck. He opened his mouth and fit his blunt teeth around the marks. He could barely stretch his mouth open wide enough. He licked the uncut skin—he wouldn’t bite down, he wouldn’t hurt Raoul, would never cause him to bleed like that. It was cold and smooth except for the little indentations of the scarring.

Raoul moaned through closed lips, and Erik pulled away. The poor boy was rattled. Maybe he thought Erik was a vampire too now, though he ought to know the difference between one of his own kind and a human. At any rate, he doubtless needed reassurance. Erik let go of his chin and quickly pulled his hand back before Raoul could snap at him.

Raoul didn’t snap, though. He just stared.

Erik gazed back. After so much time looking at Raoul from a distance, it was amazing to be so close. But perhaps he ought to say something, reassure Raoul that he didn’t mean any harm. After all, he really did come here to talk.

“You’ve been hurt. I know how that feels.”

Raoul swallowed. “Is that what your mask covers? Are you scarred too?”

“I was born the way I am. But that does not mean I have not known pain.”

Raoul seemed to expect him to take off his mask now. But Erik did not. He had the right to take Raoul’s scarf off as the one with the upper hand, but Raoul couldn’t expect Erik to just bend to his will. Maybe some other day Erik would show him. Not today.

Instead, he said, “You feel like you are an outsider now, like no one can understand you and you cannot understand them. I can tell by how you act. You are right. They do not understand pain, not even the brother you try to place between yourself and the world for protection. No one does, except for people like you and me. Monsters.”

“No. It’s not…I could hurt them,” Raoul said. “I’m just trying to protect them. I don’t think I’m better.”

Erik stared at him. “You? Hurt someone?”

He couldn’t picture it—and this after Raoul had tried, only minutes before, to hurt Erik himself. But look how that had turned out.

“You don’t understand what I am,” Raoul said. “I’m not…whatever kind of monster you think you are, I’m something worse.” He growled. “So get off me and get away.”

“Have you ever killed?”

“Wha—no!”

“I have,” Erik said. “Or had you forgotten?”

Raoul went very still.

“You’re a monster of necessity. Something someone else made you,” Erik said. “I…I was born hideous. Society made me an outcast. But power and destruction are something you have to choose.” He stroked Raoul’s hair again, now careless of whether Raoul could reach him with his fangs. He wasn’t going to try anything. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you’ve made that choice. Yet.”

Raoul said, “Are you going to kill me, monsieur?”

Erik pulled back immediately. “No.”

“But you still attacked me with holy water and silver.” Raoul looked him in the eye. “Honestly. What do you want with me, and what do you want with Christine?”

Christine.

He hadn’t thought about her, not really, in days.

He stood. Raoul relaxed slightly with the weight gone from his body, and Erik resisted the urge to kick him out of contempt, show him not to relax in Erik’s presence. It should be good, really, it he was trying to start a friendship here. “Christine’s relationship with me is none of your concern.”

“I think…”

“And your relationship with me will depend largely on how you behave,” Erik said. He pulled Raoul to his feet and unlocked the handcuffs. Taking them off, he said, “I would like us to be friends, as two monsters ought.”

“We are not alike.” Raoul shook his head. “You don’t…”

“If you do not want to be friends, we may have to be enemies,” Erik said, “since I cannot allow a threatening presence in my opera house.” He smiled. “Would you like that, Raoul?”

He brushed the remnants of snow off Raoul’s back. The holy water had no doubt sunk in by now, though, and already done its damage. And snow would never bother a vampire.

Raoul said, “You should leave Christine alone.”

Until now, Erik had always found Raoul’s love for Christine, his near-obsession with her, to be endearing. Today it was annoying. He resisted the urge to take the holy water out again and give Raoul another splash.

Instead he said, “I would prefer not to be enemies with you. But I suppose we shall see when we meet again.”

* * *

 

Erik only remembered when he got back to the lair that he had not intended to leave so soon. He had planned on speaking to Raoul for longer, making his feelings more clear, perhaps even dragging him back to the lair so they could get to know each other properly. Raoul’s discomfort had somehow affected him more thoroughly than he would have anticipated, probably through his hypnotic voice. Up close, in person, it was somewhat overwhelming—Erik hadn’t felt the need to obey Raoul, necessarily, but he had certainly wanted to please him. And even now, at a distance, he wasn’t sure the glamour had entirely worn off. Raoul’s voice echoed in his mind, and an afterimage of his face danced under Erik’s eyelids.

Of course, charm like that was not genuine. But this was an opera house. While it ostensibly showcased skill and beauty, much of what it displayed was ultimately fake, a spectacle. That, after all was the point of opera, the point of any performing art. Truth in deception. Raoul’s charm was a fraud, in some ways, allowed by his vampirism more than a charismatic personality. His pale skin and delicate features, even, were a parody of what less refined looks he might have had before, which Erik would never know. But there was something dreadfully attractive about that, about the very falsity of him. His very being mimicked that of a human, superior in petty things like strength and beauty but failing at such simple tasks as breathing and eating. He was a bloodless little figurine, and Erik couldn't help but find that endearing.

And he liked what their encounter tonight had proven. Raoul didn’t like Erik much, but he was malleable to threats and persuasion, and physically not even as strong as Erik had supposed. He had come to the graveyard unaccompanied, and once there had done basically everything Erik could have wished, dissenting in words only—and futile attempts to fight, but those could be discounted.

He had rather hoped to establish in Raoul a sense of kinship, and there he had failed. But, he thought, that was an objective he could attain easily later. Raoul was clearly lonely, after all, and insecure, only really attached to his brother and Christine. His connection to his brother was already wavering, and when it came to Christine Erik had not a little influence. He would have to see what strings he could pull. There were a number of ways he could handle it…

Of course, he could always leave Raoul and Christine’s relationship alone, but Raoul was much too obsessed with Christine right now. He wouldn’t even stop talking about her. No, that would have to end.

After he’d broken the two apart, though, he thought Raoul might be much more open to an offer of companionship. Much less likely to see Erik as a murderer, and more as a fellow outcast. From there, possibilities were entirely promising.

In the meantime, he would have to stock up on more holy water. He had liked its effect today, and until Raoul was a bit more friendly, it was always good to have options at hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween. Well, sort of. I wrote this for phantastichomos E/R fictober challenge on tumblr for Day 17's theme of vampires. I'm a bit late because it got majorly out of hand. Probably I could have easily written a lot more of this fic, too, but I decided to leave it here because writing an AU of the entire play (and probably beyond, to see things settled) is not something I feel like doing at the moment.  
> I made Raoul the vampire instead of Erik because I thought it would change more--Erik, as a vampire, would probably do basically what he's already doing. Also because Raoul the Vampire would brood a lot. I'm not sure if it comes through in this fic but I fully see this Raoul as the kind of broody vampire who thinks things like, "I can't have love because I'm too dangerous" and "I'm a monster. Out of control. Anything, absolutely anything could set me off. I can't be trusted." And he thinks that partly because the vampire who bit him was (obviously) not very nice, but it's still a little sad. And very not great for Christine, who could use a lot more emotional support than this Raoul is giving her.  
> Anyways. I'd like to hear from you in the comments. Or come over to convenientalias on tumblr and reblog the fic or say hi.


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